


Worlds Apart

by Vultoni_and_Arnaera



Series: VnA’s Fic Dump - HSC Edition [10]
Category: Henry Stickmin Series (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Heartache, Introspection, Longing, M/M, No Beta, The Passing of Time, Toppat Politics, moving forward
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27955427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vultoni_and_Arnaera/pseuds/Vultoni_and_Arnaera
Summary: Time would not stop for the "death" of one man. It continued to pass, dragging them all along with it.They each try to move on separately, but together they long for each other.And the others around them try to deal with the fallout.
Relationships: Reginald Copperbottom & Right Hand Man, Right Hand Man/Henry Stickmin
Series: VnA’s Fic Dump - HSC Edition [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002828
Comments: 4
Kudos: 55





	Worlds Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Finished this because I'm writing to de-stress during finals week.
> 
> The original title for the fic was "Worlds Away" but then I heard Lifehouse's "From Where You Are" with the lyric "these miles have torn us worlds apart" and realized how perfect it was for this fic. The entire song fits the tone of this fic so well, and it's just one of my favorite songs, too. 
> 
> No song reference for the chapter title though. I couldn't think of one that fit better.
> 
> Everyone's support for this series has been overwhelming. I loved writing it and am ecstatic it's been received so well. Thank you all so much!
> 
> As always, feedback of any kind is always appreciated!

He never expected to be back here, this broken down building that counted as his one and only safehouse back when he was solo.

But he didn't really have anywhere else to go. His old rundown apartment had a new tenant, another poor sod barely making ends meet.

Dr. Vin had been generous, letting him stay until he recovered. It had taken many long months, slowly gaining strength until he didn't need to be monitored anymore. Her work was exceptional but the human body had its limits. She had saved his life, rebuilt him in a way that just hours after the surgery he was on his feet again, but he still needed to rest while his body adjusted to the cybernetics.

He probably shouldn't have even been standing directly afterwards, much less staggering out onto the deck. His body was an aching mass when he woke up from his meltdown-induced nap, a consequence from moving too much so soon after the operation.

Henry drops his bag on the table, deciding to sort through its contents later. He shrugs out of his jacket and haphazardly tosses it over the falling-apart couch.

He's used to this quality of living. The time he spent in luxury as chief of the Toppat Clan couldn't erase a lifetime of barely surviving. It was like a distant memory now despite being less than a year ago.

His clearest memories of that time weren't of the everyday extravagances, though. He was content to let those recollections of wealth go. It was like a blip of high living sandwiched in-between life at the bottom, a shine of gold among the dullness of peeling paint and tattered clothes.

No, the memories he clung to, what he didn't, couldn't, never would let go of were of red hair and soft kisses, mismatched eyes whose affectionate glow made him feel loved and cherished. Of nights spent together when he would beg the sun not to rise so he could stay in his arms a little longer.

Henry would rather cut off his other arm than forget those precious memories.

He slides his gloves off, dropping them next to his jacket. The worn material is faded but it does its job. He would need to repair the tear down the side of the left one, though. The other one he didn't really need intact as much, but that one had to be in one piece. Especially since it hid the fact that his hands didn't match anymore.

Wearing gloves on his heists was something he never did before. He left his damning fingerprints all over the scenes of his crimes. Whether through arrogance or ignorance he believed he didn't need them, that he would never be caught. It came back to bite him in the ass when it was one of the things the military used to pin his crimes on him.

He needed to lay low, to not draw even the slightest attention to himself. That meant pulling no big jobs, nothing in his old M.O. that could potentially put him on anybody's radar. He didn't need the attention of anyone, not the government or the military, and especially not the Toppat Clan. He also had to be very, very careful to not leave any evidence behind that could connect these new crimes to his name.

That would eliminate the purpose of staying hidden, of having everyone believe he perished at The Wall. Henry Stickmin, chief of the Toppat Clan, was dead. He died months ago, though the exact details of his death were debated. The common consensus, from what he heard, was that it was the impeccable security of The Wall that was the cause of his death. They were adamant about their "shoot first, ask questions never" policy. A dead prisoner was better for the reputation than an escaped one, after all.

He couldn't help but find humor in the fact that the warden of The Wall now owed the spotlessness of his record to a criminal like Reginald. If not for him, Henry would have made a clean getaway.

It was the only part of this whole situation he found anything other than hurt in.

A twinge of pain shoots down his back, sparking along his metal spine and the surrounding area. He rubs at the afflicted skin, feeling where his back gave way to the cybernetics. The scar tissue is stiff under his hand and barely registers the touch. He can only feel the pressure of his hand in that area, no other sensations registering to the damaged nerves.

Dr. Vin had said this was happen. That he would feel pain around the cybernetics from several months to nearly a year. It was a strange combination of phantom limb and surgical pains. She gave him prescription-strength painkillers for the first few months when it was at its worst and recommended taking over-the-counter pain relief after he left, if he could get his hands on some.

She was aware of what kind of life he lead, though. Knowing his circumstances, she also recommended some alternatives to help the pain, things he could get easier than medication.

He knew all that though, even before she told him. He had watched his lover struggle with his own augmentations enough.

A memory rises unbidden. He recalls kneading his hands over a tense part of Right's upper back where it met his metal shoulder, massaging the knotted and scarred flesh until it finally relaxed. Fondly he remembers Right practically melting against his legs, groaning as the kinks in his back were worked out.

He never learned the exact combination of the metal that made up Right's cybernetics. He knew it was some kind of alloy, strong and tensile just like his love, and no other details. But one thing he thought of in that moment, with Right a boneless puddle in his lap, was mercury.

Mercury, the only metal that was liquid at room temperature. 

He'd run a hand through Right's hair, massaging the roots and brushing his fingers against the metallic half of his scalp. A content sigh had escaped his love, followed by movement as he shifted closer.

Then lips brushing against his hip where his sweatpants had ridden down. Henry had shivered at the touch, his stomach muscles clenching at the dual feeling of warm flesh and cold metal against his flushed skin. The two contrasting temperatures had creates a unique and electric sensation.

He misses Right desperately. It's an ache behind his ribs, like a physical wound where their connection had been severed. There are some days all he can think about is how badly he wants to feel his touch again, how he wants nothing more than to see him.

Henry could still return to him. There was nothing physically stopping him. He could track down the airship and fly to it. He's been practicing his flight skills, getting better at smoother takeoffs and landings, at stabilizing in the air and not flying into things. He could do it.

Then he'll be reminded why he can't, by light glinting off his metal arm or by nightmares of being swallowed by that salty, arctic-cold water. He can't go back.

He can never go back.

It still hurts. It's not with the seething pain that brought him to his knees before but a dull and constant ache. His love is alive, alive and waiting for him still. It would only take reaching out to be in his arms once more. They could be together again.

There was a conniving backstabber that stood in the way of that plan, though.

Reginald would not just let him walk back into the Toppat Clan. It was made very clear that he had no qualms with getting rid of him by any means necessary. He may have taken measures to keep from returning as well, used his high standing and reputation in the Clan hierarchy to drag his name through the mud. Henry wouldn't put it past him to ruin his reputation and assure that coming back would mean death. Reginald wouldn't even need to get his hands dirty with killing him again if he could convince the other Toppats to do it first.

That was his go-to strategy for getting rid of enemies he couldn't just shoot, to undermine them until they collapsed under their own weight. He was cunning and malicious enough to pull it off over and over again without fail. Very rarely did Reginald stoop to getting rid of one himself.

But he was also an opportunist, and the chance to kill Henry at his lowest must have been too good to pass up.

He remembers it clearly. After weeks of being locked up, seeing the airship just outside the prison windows had made him feel so relieved, so wanted. All he had to do was call and they came to help.

Having his hopes violently crushed under Reginald's uncaring, polished shoe certainly made him hit rock bottom.

The first place he ever belonged had been ripped away. The Toppat Clan was just starting to feel like home when he was captured. No one looked down on him there. He was liked and respected, treated like an equal by both his lover and the friends he'd made among the ranks.

All of it was lost in an instant, gone into that snowy night.

Henry knew he only had himself to blame for letting his guard down around Reginald. For daring to think he could rely on anyone but himself.

If it came down to it, they would undoubtedly take Reginald's word over his. He was new, untrusted, an outsider. Compared to the greatest chief the Clan has ever seen, he was nothing.

His words would mean nothing.

Returning to the Toppat Clan would be like signing his own death certificate. Reginald would hardly need to lift a finger to turn the entire clan on him in an instant.

So he didn't bother. He put the Toppat Clan behind him, just like they turned their backs on him.

He had managed to pick himself back up, to fall back into his old lifestyle of taking what he needed to live. The betrayal hurt, but he was still alive.

Henry had to keep moving forward. He couldn't stay adrift at sea any longer.

These were his first steps back onto dry land. Having solid ground under his feet again, saying "goodbye" and "thank you" to the doctor who saved him, and finding his way back here were each steps forward. They were steps out of the darkness, away from the Toppat Clan and back into his old life. He wouldn't drown simply because someone wanted him to.

He would not go under, would not be crushed by the march of time. At his core, Henry was a survivor.

He would survive this too.

**Author's Note:**

> On the topic of original titles, this series had two of them. First it was going to be "Steel and Titanium," and then I changed it to the longer and cheesier "This Metal Heart Beats for You." Eventually I chopped it down to just "This Metal Heart." I'm happiest with that title.


End file.
